The physical therapy room smelled like Bengay and determination, and Leo had grown to hate both with a passion that bordered on religious.
He lay on a padded table, his left leg strapped into a machine that bent and straightened his knee in slow, mechanical repetitions. The machine hummed. His knee clicked. The clock on the wall ticked. Forty-five minutes of this, three times a day, five days a week. The surgeon had said six months. Leo was determined to do it in four.
“You're pushing too hard,” said Cheryl, his physical therapist. She was a different Cheryl than the one from high school—this one was younger, sharper, with arms that looked like they could bench press him.
“I'm pushing just hard enough.”
“You're doing extra reps when I'm not looking.”
“You're not supposed to catch me.”
